The Robins of Iverhill: Chapter 16 – Outfield Throw

NOTE: the following story, which will be serialized on this blog, was originally written in 1985 as my senior project in creative writing at Hamilton College. 25 years later, it has been updated. New chapters will appear Monday, Wednesday and Saturday. Previous chapters are listed with hyperlinks below.

My name is Genvieve McCarling. I’m the manager of the Iverhill Robins, and we’re in the middle of the nightcap game, playing a doubleheader with New Providence.

I made some lineup changes for the second game, based upon the seven-inning opener earlier today. Eugene Raveler is a good center fielder, but he’s not as modular as he could be. And Olson told me that Monty played centerfield before. He caught a few easy ones during the nightcap, even snared one off his shoe tops. I figured that if Monty did well in the outfield, and Willie Frees could show what he had at third base, then I could use Gene for his batting prowess. I had to try something, something to shake up the lineup and make this team feared throughout the league.

Then it happened. Rich Russell, for New Providence, a big hulking muscled gargantuan who held the bat like it was a toothpick, stepped to the plate for the top of the sixth.

Our pitcher, Zach Phillipstern, threw a mediocre sinker, and Russell swung massively at it, slamming the ball towards the stratosphere. Monty dashed to the fence, took one big leap, stretching his glove up to the sky. I just groaned, watching the ball sail over Monty’s glove by the breadth of a mouse’s whisker.

But wait! Monty landed on the ground, reared back, and fired a rifle-shot back to the second-base man, who caught the ball. “OUT!” the umpire screamed. Well now. Maybe I missed that catch. From my vantage point, it looked like it cleared the fence. I must have blinked when Mauntmaurency caught it.

Another batter stepped to the plate. Phillipstern worked the count up to 2-2, but one of his cheap fastballs went right over the plate, and the batter smashed the ball into the sky. Monty dashed back to the fence, leaped again, his glove stretched to the clouds. Again I saw the ball breeze past Monty. He couldn’t have caught that ball if he was Paul Bunyan.

But again, as Monty landed back on the earth, he snapped his wrist, flipping the ball toward the right fielder. Wait – I could have sworn he missed that one. Two clear home runs, but somehow Monty’s catching them. “Keep it up, Monty!” I shouted from the dugout.

The third batter, Andres Martinez, stomped up to the plate, the marble column he called a baseball bat dusted and dampened with mud. Phillipstern’s curve had some momentum, but not much. Again, the ball sailed toward St. Peter’s gates.

This time, however, the ball didn’t fly towards Mauntmaurency’s position in the outfield. It landed between center and right field, where Tierney caught the ball on a bounce. He snagged it and fired it toward Hunter on second base – but for some reason, a second ball was headed toward Warlick, our second baseman.

And the umpire, perplexed for an instant by the sight of two balls coming in from the infield, removed his glasses to rub his eyes, then he rubbed those bottle bottoms he called eyeglass lenses, after which he scanned Wilson Field for possible quick exits. Upon sighting one, he shouted, “Forfeit in favor of the New Providence Grays! Game Over!!”

Monty dashed toward second base, awaiting the start of the next inning. At that point, I also walked toward second base, in an attempt to convince the umpire that his eyes did indeed deceive him.

“I’m sorry, coach, but your outfielder used an illegal ball. The rule clearly states that a person throwing a ball that’s not a game ball into the playing field automatically forfeits the game for his team.”

“Illegal ball?”

“C’mon, coach, it’s been on the books for at least a hundred years or so.”

My vision focused at the umpire’s shoes. At least a hundred years. Monty used another one of those old age gimmicks again! “What’s the problem, everybody?” a familiar voice called, running in from center field.

“Into the clubhouse, Mauntmaurency.”

“But what’s going on, miss?”

“I SAID GET INTO THE CLUBHOUSE!!”

Monty, apparently finally realizing halfway through the season that I was the person in charge, trotted toward the clubhouse.

Meanwhile, Warlick walked up to the umpire. “Monty didn’t use an illegal ball.”

I looked at my second baseman as if he had come down with a case of insanity. “Don’t make this worse,” I told him.

With that, Warlick opened up his infielder’s mitt. “This isn’t a baseball, coach.”

I looked. It wasn’t a baseball. It was a peeled potato, shaped like a round baseball.

The umpire looked as well.

I had to think fast. “I’ll suspend Mauntmaurency for five games if you take away the forfeit and restart the game.”

“I’m sorry, Miss McCarling, but he did use an illegal –”

“An illegal what? It was a potato. There’s two outs and there’s a man on first, and Monty threw a potato to second base. He didn’t throw a baseball.”

“Yes, but those other two potatoes he threw earlier this inning –”

Again, time to think fast. “You ruled that those were outs. The inning continued. If they were baseballs, potatoes or marshmallows, you didn’t question it. The game continued. The only thing you can do right now is rule on whether or not Martinez got on base. Which he did on a base hit. Monty’s out of the game. I’ll put Eugene Raveler in there right now and everything will be fine.”

The umpire looked at me as if he was trapped on the witness stand in a court trial. For once, I had the upper hand. And boy, did it feel good.

“We’re going to have to rule with the league tomorrow and get this straightened out.”

“You do that. I’ll be in the league offices first thing in the morning. Wearing my best blouse.”

The official threw the ball – the real ball – back to Trunks, who assumed his position behind the plate. “We’re starting the game back up – Martinez on first, two outs. Raveler in center field for Mauntmaurency. Play ball!”

And I knew what would happen next. The New Providence manager, who had a shorter temper than I did, ran out to the field to argue with the umpire. And after using the kind of barnyard language that would cause someone to have their mouth washed out with soap, the manager was tossed out of the game.

We ended up winning the game, thanks to Raveler’s two-run homer in the bottom of the 7th. But I had little time to celebrate.

I had an issue to deal with in the locker room.

Monty was in my office, pacing back and forth in my clubhouse, ripping the carpet with those sharpened cleats of his. Boy, if I was ever pissed off at Monty before, that was just small potatoes – literally speaking.

I stalked the inside of the clubhouse, staring straight at him, hoping to incite fear into his heart. Summoning up my anger and grit, I said to Monty, “Right now. I want the truth. Tell me the truth or so help me God, I’ll throw you off the team, and I don’t care what Mr. Wilson says if I do it!”

“But miss, you haven’t told me what the problem is yet,” Monty said, drinking a cup of water in my office.

“That thing with the potato. Holding Martinez’ belt earlier this year. Those 100-year-old stories in the locker room and on the bus trips. And don’t even get me started on your attempt to drive a car! Now I don’t know what kind of person you’ re trying to PRETEND to be, but you’re making a mockery out of this sport – in front me, your teammates, the Wilson family and every paying fan in Wilson Field! What in the name of the Lord gives you the right to do such stupid things on a baseball field?? We’re fighting for a playoff spot and you’re doing stuff that kids in Little League know better not to do. What gives you the right to do these things?”

“Just natural ability, miss.”

“AND WOULD YOU STOP CALLING ME MISS!?!”

At that point, Trunks entered the clubhouse. I looked at his usually happy face, now uncharacteristically contorted in a frown. “What’s wrong, Trunks?”

“Listen coach, I had an discussion with Gene Raveler after the first game. I said a few things to him that he didn’t want to deal with. Well, the fact of the matter is, Coach, he’s gotten some of the players together. They asked me to tell you that Monty needs to leave the team – or we’re going to leave. He says he can’t play on the same team with Monty, and it’s either him or us.”

I don’t believe it! I can’t handle this – not now! “You can’t quit! Not when there’s a pennant race! Not when we’re trying to stay above Dellsburg for that playoff spot!”

“I’m sorry, but those were Raveler’s words for you.”

“If you don’t mind, miss, I’d better get out of here,” Monty replied, looking for an exit.

“Stay put, Monty. I’m not through with you yet. Virgil,” I groaned. “Tell Gene Raveler that I’ll see him at his place if he calls off this strike.”

“Okay Coach.”

“Oh, and Virgil – emphasize the word ‘see him.’ He’ll know what that means. If that’s what I have to do to keep this team together… then that’s what I have to do.”

“I understand, Coach,” said Trunks. He left my office.

And somehow those words “I’ll see Gene Raveler tonight” made me feel like I needed to scrub my skin with steel wool.

“Sorry to cause all the confusion, miss, but this isn’t what I had planned when I came here.”

I looked back at Monty, and immediately remembered why I was angry at him.

“What DID you have planned, Monty? Playing like you stepped out of a science fiction time travel story? And producing phony contracts on old stationery to back up your claim?”

“Miss, those papers are true. I am true!”

“Enough! I’m sick and tired of this! I can’t coach a single game without worrying if you’re going to pull some trick out of an old baseball history book and see if it still works! I have been trying to operate this team like a baseball manager should – not like a ‘female baseball manager,’ but like a ‘baseball manager.’ I don’t care if the league thinks I’m some walking, talking publicity stunt. I’m not. And I don’t need another walking, talking publicity stunt on my team!”

Monty said nothing. I grabbed a loose pencil on my desk, bending it between my fingers until it started to splinter.

“I don’t even know why I’m doing this. I should throw you off the team right now. You’re benched for five games for that potato deal. Take this time and think about what you’re doing to this team. Clean up your act. Play like a real baseball player and not a sideshow gimmick. Do that – or you’ll clean out your locker and I’ll put you on the next train out of Iverhill. Is that clear?”

He nodded. With that, I turned away, kicking a loose glove from my path as I headed for the door. With an angry slam, I left Monty alone in the office.

Of course, now I had to deal with another issue.

It was tough. Gene Raveler represented everything I never wanted in a relationship. But he also represented everything I hated about myself. And somewhere in between, I had to summon up the courage to try to convince Gene Raveler – without going to bed with him – that staying with the Robins would be in his best interest.